Drugs For Sorrow
by CCtheGeek
Summary: Sherlock's return is not very dramatic dramatic. But of course Sherlock comes home a changed man. Gripped by a heavy depression and marked with a number of cold scars, even in London he is lost. TW- Depression, self-harm,mentions of suicide. Rated M because im a wuss... ENJOY
1. Chapter 1

-A/N- wELCOME TO MY STORY. ah.. damn it. caps lock... oh well! Hey! Please enjoy,rate, and review.

John Watson stared at the door. He checked the small piece of thin, delicate paper Mycroft had handed him again, even though he knew he was at the right address. He'd double checked it ten times by now. He just wasn't sure what to do now that he was here.

He'd seen Sherlock's ghost last week. But as it turned out, it wasn't his ghost, but the man himself. Alive and breathing in the doorway of 221B.

He really hadn't meant to punch him. Not hard enough to knock him down. And he definitely didn't expect him to stay down. When Sherlock had stood, he didn't look at John. Instead he'd kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind him. He'd opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself just before John shouted at him to leave. So he'd left.

And for a week John wasn't sure why he'd said that. Yes, he was angry at Sherlock, but all he'd been hoping, wishing, praying for was that he would come back. What bothered him more was that Sherlock had obeyed the command without protest, taking it a few steps further by not coming back.

Because John had waited. Of course he waited. After sending Sherlock away he could only assume he would return for a second try. Couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to it. No use lying to oneself. Only, when the person knocking on the door proved to be the other Holmes brother, he was left even more confused.

So here he was, outside the flat Sherlock had been put up in since his return. What was he doing here? He'd expected Sherlock to attempt rekindling their friendship (in a very Sherlocky way, of course). He'd been prepared for that.

He knocked. Nothing happened. So he put his ear against the door and, hearing shuffling inside, knocked again, louder now. Then the noise stopped. He guessed Sherlock was deciding if it was worth opening the door, depending on who was on the other side.

Then the latch clicked, and the door swung open only an inch, and the shuffling resumed. John's brow furrowed. He knocked a third time before pushing the door open all the way. "Sherlock?"

He pushed the door open and looked around the apartment. It definitely didn't look like he'd only lived there a week. Sherlock, dressed unusually in a plain white tee and a pair of blue jeans, appeared busy rearranging things. Packing some into boxes, others into luggage. "Sherlock," he said again. But the man didn't stop, didn't turn to look at him. "It's been a week, why haven't you come back?"

Sherlock didn't even pause. He simply swished across the room, opening a filing cabinet and pulling out a bunch of dully colored folders. He looked through each one, sorting them into three piles on the floor. The tallest of the three were thrown into a metal waste bin and then Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket. A packet of matches, one of which he lit and threw into the bin, lighting the files aflame before he placed one of the remaining piles in a suitcase and the other in a small messenger bag sat on a wooden chair.

"Sherlock, Jesus, you can't start a fire like that in here," John scolded. Again there was no response. So he quickly looked around to find the kitchen. He filled a jar with water and rushed back to put the fire out. He thought that would get some kind of response out of him. He was wrong.

"I don't understand, are you ignoring me?" he asked Sherlock. "You must know I'm here, you opened the door for me. So why are you ignoring me?"

Still nothing. One of the luggage bags was now full, so Sherlock zipped it and stood it up, wheeling it over to store it next to the door.

"Are you going somewhere?" He'd just gotten back. Where would he be going? How could he even think of leaving again? Or was he simply moving into another flat? With Mycroft? With John?

A box was folded closed and placed next to the luggage, then a smaller one was placed on top.

John watched the man work. Watched how he moved. He recognized the flourish that accentuated every move, but it was different somehow. More calculated. More careful. He kept his limbs close, rarely bending or stooping unless it was necessary.

"Are you injured?" John asked, trying not to sound angry. Really he was more concerned now rather than angry. Anger could wait. They had plenty of time for that, he hoped.

"Sherlock, will you just say something? Please?"

When all the boxes and suitcases had been filled and left by the door, Sherlock surveyed the room. Most everything was gone in a matter of minutes, only larger furniture still sat out. Sherlock grabbed his coat (a beige windbreaker) from a hook on the back of the door, put it on one arm at a time, and walked out of the apartment.

John's confusion was turning into frustration, but he was trying really hard not to seem angry. He was angry, and Sherlock knew, but he wanted them to work it out. "Will you please just wait a minute?"

Sherlock didn't speak, didn't turn around, but he did pause.

John took a breath and stepped out of the flat. He approached Sherlock, but stayed behind him. He didn't want to scare him away. "Sherlock, I... Mycroft came by after you left the other day. He explained things. A bit. I know why you... why you did why you did. That doesn't mean I'm... okay with everything, but... Sherlock I don't want to lose you again. I asked for one more miracle and I can't just give it up just because I'm angry. Will you please talk to me?"

At that, Sherlock finally turned around. A few steps forward and he was, for the first time since his return, actually looking at John. He studied his face, and he saw it all. The hurt, the fear, and the anger being the most prevalent of emotions displayed there.

He raised a finger to signal for John to wait, which he did, while Sherlock went back into the apartment. He was only in there for a few seconds before he came out again and closed the door behind him, a small brown envelope in his hands. He held it against John's chest.

John glanced down at the envelope and grabbed it. When he looked up again Sherlock was walking away. He had no choice but to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn't in the mood for making up with him today.

He watched him go before exiting the building himself, the envelope tucked safely in his pocket.

 _John,_

 _You're probably feeling guilty about the punch. You'll act like you're not, because guilt or no guilt you still feel I deserved it, but I know you. But who am I to lecture you about telling lies?_

 _I don't know how much my brother told you, he only mentioned he was going to try to explain things to you. I told him to mind his own business, but in his world everyone's business is his._

 _You would probably prefer a conversation to a letter. I would as well. It's all I've been thinking about since I've been away, coming back and telling you everything. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to trick you. But if it meant keeping you alive, even at the cost of you hating me or never being able to trust me again, I'd do it again._

 _Moriarty is dead. Every loose end tied up. It's over and everyone is safe from him._

 _I know that doesn't mean the three of you are okay. It doesn't mean that any of you will forgive me. I know that. This apology isn't about rebuilding our relationship. It is simply an explanation._

 _I have been gone just over three years. For the first two, only Molly knew I was alive. It was at this time that I incurred certain injuries that rendered me unable to continue on my own. I went to Mycroft who, aside from assisting with strategy and execution, refused to speak to me for the first few weeks. Though I'm not entirely sure if that was out of anger or courtesy._

 _Many of my injuries have healed almost perfectly. There is occasionally a bit of stiffness, but it is manageable._

 _There is one injury, however, from which I will never fully recover. The skin has healed and I no longer feel the pain, but the internal damage is permanent. I won't tell you about everything that happened while I was away, not in this letter. Possibly not ever, depending on what you decide to do after reading it. But, should you want to know the rest, you must first know this._

 _I was captured once on my journey. I knew I would find an escape, and so did they. They also knew that most of the pain they inflicted on me would go away, the breaks and bruises would heal and I would be on the move again. So they decided to leave a mark that would never wear off. Something that would stay with me until my journey was over, until I returned to you, and until the end of my days. I will not go into detail but you must know the end result._

 _I cannot speak._

 _They have left me without a voice. I know that most, if not all, people who know me will be pleased._

 _It was this injury that prompted me to ask Mycroft for assistance. He wasn't too happy to see me climbing through his bedroom window, but he wasn't too surprised either. With his help I was able to finish the job and come back._

 _I've been back for a few months now, living in a flat not far from the one we shared. Honestly, I'd thought you would have moved. If you're wondering how you didn't see me, it's because I've rarely gone outside. It is safe to go out, but I wasn't sure how to approach you, and I didn't want you to find out from anyone other than me. I also know that, while I may be a master at the art of disguise, you would recognize me right away no matter how well I hide myself, because you look for me in everyone you see._

 _I know because I do the same. I look for you in the faces of all who pass me._

 _If you want to know more, I will be temporarily staying with Mycroft. You may come to me, or ask me to come to you. Or, if you'd rather not see me, I've given Mycroft permission to tell you anything and everything, and to answer any questions you have. You could also speak to Molly, although she doesn't know much about what happened while I was gone, she only knows how I survived the fall._

 _John, you were the first true friend I've ever had. Or, at least the first one I recognized as a friend. I don't know a lot about how friendship works, but I am certain that I have lost your trust. Not your faith, but your trust. And I am sorry. That might not mean much, but it is the truth. Then again, that might not mean much to you either._

 _Should we never meet again, I want to wish you well in your life. I am sure that you will choose better friends in the future._

 _-S. H._


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome back! Once again, please rate, review, and enjoy.

John must have read the letter fifty times before setting it on the kitchen table, having forgotten all about the tea he'd made. The cup sat by his elbow, cold.

He put his head in his hands, taking deep breaths. Was this another trick? Was Sherlock testing him? Testing his loyalty?

Or was it the truth? Had he really been rendered mute by Moriarty's men?

And so what if he had? What did it matter to him what happened to Sherlock? Did the man even care about him? About what he'd gone through, thinking his best friend was dead? Blaming himself. Visiting the cemetery every single day until just looking at the name on the headstone became too painful. Packing all of Sherlock's belongings away, but being unable to leave the dwelling they'd shared.

It wasn't fair. Whether this was one of Sherlock's silly games or not, it wasn't fair. Sherlock had made all the decisions himself. He'd decided to jump. He'd decided to push John away so he could do it. He'd decided to trick everyone into thinking he was dead while he rid the world of everyone and everything connected to Moriarty. And now he was handing all the responsibility over to John.

Why?

Why was he all of a sudden leaving it all up to him.

Sherlock Holmes was no coward. But if this wasn't a trick, then perhaps the man was simply afraid of being rejected. Or of annoying or angering John more than he already had.

But John didn't want that to be the last time they saw each other. He didn't want new friends. He'd already have some by now if he did. He just wanted Sherlock back. He wanted to rebuild that trust, that connection they'd had. No matter how long it took.

John arrived at Mycroft's home, still unsure of what he wanted to say or do. The maid who answered the door led him deep into the building, corridors like caves, dimly lit, the only difference being the carpets and framed portraits rather than dirt and ancient paintings on the walls.

They stopped in front of a large wooden door, which she opened for him before disappearing around the corner.

Even though he could still barely believe his friend was alive, he was more than a little amused at what he saw inside the room. Sherlock sat on the edge of a large bed as a doctor attempted to take his vitals. Every time the doctor tried something, Sherlock would move away, silently protesting.

John coughed to get their attention. They both looked over to him, looking confused.

"Can I help you?" the doctor asked, his voice clearly indicating annoyance.

John took a deep breath. "I'm... here to talk to Sherlock."

"Good luck," the doctor said, stepping back from his patient. "I can't get him to listen to a word I say."

"I'm sorry, but... who are you?"

"Dr. Parson, Sherlock's doctor." At Sherlock's sudden cold glare, Dr. Parson corrected himself. "I mean, I'm the doctor his brother hired to treat him. He's very particular about that. And you are?"

John turned his head a bit so Sherlock wouldn't see the smirk on his face. "Do you mind if I..."

"Go ahead." Parson's arms swept open, inviting him to do as he pleased. "Maybe you can get him to do his stretches."

With a nod and a smile John walked over to where Sherlock sat, looking down at him with an expectant face. "Tilt your head back," he requested softly.

Of course that would be the first order of business. Sherlock did as asked, exposing his neck for John to see. There were two long, intersecting scars, pinkish and raised a bit from the rest of the skin, like hills gradually worn down by years of being traveled over. Surgery could probably help it, but he doubted Sherlock would find that useful.

He ran his thumb over one of the scars, the shorter of the two. He'd seen many similar ones throughout his life. It only made him wonder how many more, similar or not, could be found on this body. How many bruises, gashes, lashes had he endured? Was this the only one, or the worst of them all?

"Give me your arm," John requested. Sherlock just stared at him, obviously trying to figure out the nature of this visit. "Give."

Once he held Sherlock's wrist in his hand, John started stretching him. He didn't know all of Sherlock's injuries, but he was able to figure out where he hurt, where he felt stiff, from the way he'd moved while packing up his flat. He lifted the arm up over Sherlock's head, twisting it a bit in both directions, and bending it at the elbow a few times. He went through the movements, counting them in his head, like opening night of a ballet. He put on a repeat performance with the other arm.

When he instructed Sherlock to lay back on the bed, he did so with a jump of his brow but little hesitation. John lifted one leg, bending it up and down, back and forth until the movement felt less forced. He did the same with the second leg and helped Sherlock sit back up. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded, face softening into one of his rare, genuine smiles. A sort of straight smile that could pass for a frown but they both knew what it was.

"Wow," Dr. Parson remarked. "I have to fight him for hours just to get him to sit still."

John bit his lip, glancing down at Sherlock who would still not meet his gaze. He stuck his hand out to Dr. Parson. "John Watson," he introduced as they shook. "I'm his doctor."

Dr. Parson's mouth opened as he realised. "Oh... You're the... the friend. The one who wrote up all his cases."

John nodded. "That's me."

"Well, I'll give you some space, then. I'll be back tomorrow, Sherlock." Dr. Parson left the room, closing the door behind him.

At last John had Sherlock in his grasp. He could finally shout at him for leaving him alone, scream and yell about how one is supposed to treat their friends, give an entire presentation, complete with notecards and worksheets, on the difference between protecting someone and lying to them.

But all he could bring himself to do was sit next to him, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at each other's sides again, and say, "I never stopped missing you."

They sat in silence for a long while. John didn't know what to say. What did you say to a man who could say nothing back? Sure, there had been times when Sherlock wouldn't speak for hours, days, weeks, even. But this was more permanent.

"Your letter." John said. His hands were folded together in his lap. He stared straight ahead. "It seemed awfully sentimental."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock quickly glance down to hide the slight twitch of lips.

He turned to face him. "I'm not angry at you. I am angry. But not at you."

Sherlock pulled a phone out of his pocket and began typing. When finished, he turned and showed the screen to John. 'Why not at me?'

"Because none of this was your fault," John reasoned. "You are responsible for your own decisions, but I understand why you made them. I do wish you would have talked to me, but we can't go back and change it now. I was angry. At you. For a long time, wondering why you would do that. But not anymore."

'How much did Mycroft tell you?'

"Not much," John admitted. "Only why you did it. And a bit of the how. Not what happened after."

'Then you know almost everything.' was what displayed on the screen this time. Then he typed again. 'Everything was pretty straightforward. Locate, approach, remove.'

"So what don't I know?"

Sherlock turned his head to the side a bit, and lifted a hand to point at the scars running over his neck.

"Ah. Right. Those look like they went fairly deep. Like they should have been... fatal, given the location."

'Moriarty's men were highly skilled.'

"Maybe you're just immortal."

John chuckled at his own joke, and watched as Sherlock cracked a small smile, heard the soft puff of breath that left the man's mouth. It took him a few seconds to realise that was Sherlock's laugh. That his laughter would forever be silent, save a heavy exhale.

Both their faces fell, looking away from each other.

"So. The packing?"

Sherlock's lips turned inward. 'I'm going to spend some time away.'

"Away? Away where? For how long?"

'My destination hasn't been decided yet. Duration is indefinite.'

John scratched his head. "When do you leave?"

'Soon.'

"Soon." John repeated. "You just got back and you're leaving already?"

'I've been back for some time.' was Sherlock's reply.

"Yes, but I didn't know about it, did I?" John asked loudly. "You can't just leave me like this again."

'It's for the best.'

John stood, hands on hips, posture perfect, and paced. "How. How is that for the best?" As he passed Sherlock, he grabbed the phone that was offered to him.

'It is best for me to distance myself from people I care about.'

"Why?"

'Moriarty's people are all dead. Who do you think killed them?'

John's mouth fell open as he stopped pacing. He looked down at Sherlock, who was gazing right back at him, a fierceness in his eyes he hadn't seen in years. They maintained eye contact until Sherlock grabbed the phone back from John's immobile arms.

Of course he assumed Sherlock had killed them. But he hadn't actually realised that he had killed them. He was the one who stopped the killing, or made sure the killer got punished. And now he was the killer. Ten, a hundred, a thousand times over?

Sherlock stood, pressing the phone into John's hands.

'I am dangerous. Any time a person comes within my field of vision, I instantly begin calculating the easiest, quietest way to kill them. You are not an exception. I must go.'

John shook his head. "You wouldn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt anyone. Not without reason, and I know your brain is like a super computer, absorbing and processing data, and you may have developed an instinct to kill but you are not dangerous. You know the difference between threat and non-threat, between enemy and friend. You haven't even been startled by me."

'You should not be so quick to trust me.'

"You shouldn't be so quick to claim to know what's best for me," John argued.

'Maybe I'm not just doing it for you. Maybe this is a selfish act disguised by words of concern for you.'

"Is it?"

Sherlock's response was a dramatic shrug.

"I know what it is," John said, nodding to himself. "Yeah, you're worried that I might turn you away one day. That I'll just move on, and leave you behind. You're afraid. So you're pulling us apart before you can get hurt. Because you've gone against your own rules and made a friend. I won't let you do that."

'There's not much you can do to stop me.' It wasn't an admission or a denial.

"We'll see."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Then he seemed to rock backwards, arms bracing for impact upon the floor. His fall was as silent as he was.

In all of one second a hundred and one images flashed in John's head like an outdated projector, sticking and whining as the slide carousel danced around and around. He saw Sherlock on the roof, on the ground, drifting through the air like a feather in the wind. He recalled the Sherlock of his nightmares, split open and sewn up so he looked like a poor, weathered rag doll. The Sherlock of his daydreams, standing by his bedside, wings spread out and glowing more radiant than the sun.

But none of those Sherlock's were real, none of them were here.

After coming back from his reverie, John was immediately at Sherlock's side. He called the man's name. "Are you alright?"

With a hand on his forehead, Sherlock nodded, again typing away on the phone.

'I suffer from frequent dizzy spells. Head injury.'

He helped Sherlock sit up and kept a hand on his back for extra support. "And you want to go traveling like that? Why don't you just give it some time, yeah? Give yourself some more time to heal."

'I've had time.'

"Please."

Sherlock breathed hard, ready to stand his ground. Ready to remind John that he didn't care about pleases and thank-yous. But the desperation on John's face, the face of the person he was willing to die for, reminded him that he did care. At least when the pleases and thank-yous fell from those lips. 'A few weeks.'

The relief spread across John's face in an instant as he said, "Thank you." Then he was hugging Sherlock loosely around the shoulders.

In that moment Sherlock felt like a small child. Hugs had been a necessary evil then, and were an unwelcome gesture now, but he patted John's back.

"I still have most of your things," John announced as they stood. "I couldn't look at them, but... I couldn't get rid of them either. It's all it storage."

'It will be as if I never left.' After showing the screen to John he added, 'Almost.'


	3. Chapter 3

Well. This has been fun. Um... Enjoy, i guess. or dont. You do you. Please like and comment any criticism, or anything you liked.

-ENJOY!-

John's eyes flickered open and he breathed in a big breath. Even through his squint he could tell it was still dark, definitely too early to wake up. He rolled over, tugging at the covers to cocoon himself and go back to sleep. He opened his eyes one last time to be sure it was still dark and found a face staring intently at him.

He jumped back, heart pounding with the sudden influx of adrenaline.

Once his eyes acclimated to the dark, he recognised the face.

"Sherlock," he said, voice scratchy from sleep. He rubbed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it and squeezed his eyes shut.

John felt something tug in his chest. Sherlock could remember so many things no other human could possibly hold in their mind, and yet sometimes he still forgot he couldn't talk.

"Come here," John requested as he moved himself to sit on the edge of his bed.

Sherlock sat next to him.

"You alright?"

Sherlock nodded, but the tight look on his face told John he wasn't exactly sure. What did alright even mean? Was he alright or was he sick? Was he alright sitting there? Was he alright aside from his lack of voice? What was the standard, what was alright versus not alright.

John reached out, slowly so Sherlock would see and not be startled when a hand touched his back. He watched Sherlock's face soften, eyes drift closed for just a second. Sherlock had a tendency to flinch or defend himself at the threat of being touched. But it was no secret, at least between them, that despite what Sherlock had said at first, John was an exception. There was no way to rationalise how he seemed to relax anytime John reached out to steady him or pulled him in for a hug.

"How about I make us some tea?"

This time Sherlock's nod was not so conflicted.

John sipped his tea, not taking his eyes off Sherlock, whose own eyes were closed and who had yet to touch his own cup of tea.

"So what were you doing?"

Sherlock's eyes opened and he reached for the pen and notepad kept on the counter. He quickly scribbled something on the paper and pushed it toward John. 'I was watching you sleep.'

"Why?"

His answer was a shrug and a sip.

John thought for a moment. "You used to do that before. Watch me sleep."

Sherlock took the pad back. 'Maybe you were closer to moving on than you thought.'

"No," John said, pushing the pad away as if it were the most offensive object he'd ever beheld. "I forgot one thing, that doesn't mean I was forgetting you."

'Might have been better.'

"Do you really think that? That I would be better off without you? Because that is absolutely ridiculous, and I'll never believe it."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the corner as he finished his tea.

Later, after John had gotten some more sleep, there was a knock at the door.

John and Sherlock looked at each other from where they sat in their chairs.

It was John who stood to open the door. "Lestrade," he said when he saw who it was. "Er, come in..."

"Thanks," Lestrade walked in and locked eyes with Sherlock. The three men were quiet for a long minute. "I... I heard you were back. Well, everyone's heard, but there's not much in the papers. I assume that's thanks to Mycroft. Anyway, we could use your help."

Sherlock shook his head, looking away.

"Your brother said you weren't taking cases, but... we've got a double murder, no suspect, no weapon in sight."

John could see he wanted it, could see it in the tightening of his lips, the squeeze of his fists. It wasn't a particularly interesting case, but how long had it been since he'd had anything? He was itching for it.

"Why isn't he saying anything?"

John stared at him. "Didn't Mycroft tell you?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Tell me what?"

John looked toward Sherlock who was standing. Sherlock nodded as he put his coat on.

"Sherlock can't talk. Anymore," John explained. "Something happened while he was away and..."

Lestrade's mouth opened in shock. "He can't..." He looked back toward Sherlock, but he'd already left the flat.

The boys arrived at the crime scene just seconds after Lestrade. The entire building was quiet as soon as Sherlock entered, mocking him. The winds died so the old walls didn't sway and squeak. Everyone stilled, so there were no heavy, creaky footsteps one would expect in a house full of police. All voices silenced, without so much as a whisper passing between any two people.

Nobody was really surprised. The news of the famous detective's return had spread quickly. But details were hard to come by. No one was granted interviews, no one had any facts. Articles were filled with reactions and rumours, guesses and opinions, all from unreliable mouths.

All eyes were on Sherlock. Where else would they be? He'd died a fake detective. Did being alive make him more fake, or less? Of course all eyes were on him. Except his own, which were currently scanning the two dead bodies.

One laid on a sofa, dark hair covering her face, right arm dangling so her curled fingers almost touched the floor, left arm draped over her chest. The second body was face-down on the sandy carpet in a typical sprawled-out pose. Both had gunshot wounds.

John watched Sherlock work, his movements being the only source of noise as the others simply stared at the detective. He could see Sherlock's lips moving, mouthing his observations and conclusions.

"Has he lost his touch, or something?" The voice, unsurprisingly, was Anderson.

Sherlock didn't see Donovan smack his arm, but he did hear Lestrade warning, "Shut it."

But Anderson didn't shut it. "I'm just saying that normally he would have insulted half of us by now."

"I mean it," Lestrade warned again. "Keep quiet."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade. 'Murder-suicide. House robbed after both dead for some time, gun stolen by robber.'

Lestrade felt the vibration in his pocket. He grabbed the phone out and read the message. But he didn't know how to respond. Text back? Ask out loud? Which would be worse? Would it matter? In the end he decided to reply to the text. 'How do you know?'

Sherlock bit his lip. Explaining his findings was the best part, but there was too much to type on a phone, or even write down. 'Can anyone on your team interpret for me?'

By now most of the other people in the room were confused, looking on at the exchange.

'Interpret?'

'Sign language.'

That made sense, of course Sherlock would have picked up sign language. Lestrade didn't know how long he'd been without a voice, but regardless he doubted it would have taken him very long to learn. There was, actually, someone who could interpret. He just didn't know how Sherlock would react. 'Sally Donovan is the only one here. We can try to call someone else in, if you want.'

Sherlock turned, giving Donovan a quick glance before turning back to John and standing close. He showed John the conversation.

"I don't know if we can trust her," John whispered. "She might not interpret correctly, she might tell people..."

'I want this to be over as soon as possible.' Sherlock typed the message out for him. 'I don't want to do this anymore.'

John looked up from the phone and saw the defeat in Sherlock's eyes. "Okay, whatever you want to do, Sherlock."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John's, unable to withstand the anger he saw in them. He knew the anger was not aimed at him, but at Moriarty. But it still hurt to look into those eyes and see the emotions they held, and the ones they did not. He sent another text to Lestrade.

'Send everyone but Donovan away. We must do this quickly, and in private.'

"Alright, everyone back to the station," Lestrade commanded after receiving the text. They complained and gave Sherlock wary glares as they shuffled out of the house, chattering lightly and temporarily alleviating the stagnant silence. When Sally walked by, he stopped her. "Sgt. Donovan, I need you to stay."

"What? What for?"

Lestrade waited until he was sure everyone had gone before he answered her. "I need you to interpret some sign language."

"For who?"

"For Sherlock," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock put on his business face, a calculated contortion meant to appear indifferent. Eyes just wide enough to show general humanity, lips straight and pressed together to appear patient, nostrils relaxed to imply calmness.

"Sherlock?" she asked. "Why does he need-" She stopped when she looked at him, eyes drawn to the raised skin on his neck that had previously been hidden by distance and his coat collar. She remembered his silent entrance, remembered he spoke not a word the whole time he was examining the crime scene. "Oh my god, is he..." She had to look away from him. "Okay. Go ahead. Not too fast though, I can't talk as fast as you... could. Sorry, I didn't mean, just... go ahead."

Sherlock began moving his hands at an easy speed. Of course he felt compelled to speed up, out of frustration with his thoughts moving faster than his body and out of the intense feeling of wanting to leave. He didn't like this, wasn't enjoying it. It was as pointless as everything else now.

Sally did not, despite what John suspected, purposely (or accidentally) misinterpret Sherlock.

When it was over, John had a strange compulsion to applaud. Sherlock's movements, as well as Donovan's occasional mimicry, appeared precise and choreographed. It told a story of its own. Behind the tale of the younger sister killing the older and then herself, was the parable of a man who'd lost everything and a woman who felt responsible and so, so ashamed.

Lestrade had managed to listen to the entire explanation even though he too was entranced by the dance of hands. "Well, thanks," he said, feeling embarrassed at not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock's hands moved in a tiny encore and Sally looked at him, confused and a bit sad.

"What did he say?" Lestrade asked.

She looked between the two and then at John, who looked just as confused and expectant as Lestrade. "I don't-"

Sherlock repeated the movement, slower so she could copy the move so she could be sure she was not mistaken in her translation.

"He asked not to be consulted anymore. He doesn't want anymore cases."

He wasn't sure if it was the absoluteness of the silence in the room or the weight of the gazes he could feel on him, but Sherlock found himself starting to tip forward as a rush of dizziness whirled through him.

John caught him at the waist, Sally at the elbow. Sherlock's body stiffened at the touch and Sally pulled away.

"Is he alright?" she asked simultaneously with Lestrade.

"He gets dizzy..." John answered, not looking away from him. He took his hands away from him but Sherlock swayed again. John steadied him again and this time Sherlock held onto him, as if along with the dizziness he'd also lost a lot of the strength in his leg. His fingers dug into John's arm, trying to stabilise himself.

After a few seconds, his strength was back and his head was clear. He released John, using his eyes to send an apology for grabbing him too tightly. John gave a tiny shake of his head, he knew Sherlock didn't mean to hurt him, and it wasn't really that bad. And although Sherlock had let go of John, John did not let go of Sherlock. Instead, he locked arms with him in case it happened again.

While Sherlock thought it unnecessary, he made no effort to remove him.

"Donovan," he started, "thanks. For... translating." He continued after she gave a reserved nod. "We'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about him. People will find out, eventually, but..."

"I won't. I won't say anything about it," she promised. "Sherlock?" Once she had his attention, she signed a few words to him.

He replied as best he could with one arm partially restrained. Her hands moved a bit more and his only response was a low nod. He tugged lightly on the arm wrapped through his. He and John walked out, arms linked, and caught a cab home.

After they returned home, Sherlock sat on the sofa. Perfectly still, eyes closed, hands folded under his chin. No part of him moved, to the point that John wondered if he was even breathing.

For the first hour, John tried to ignore it. He cleaned, made tea, and spent some time on his computer.

He started to catch up on some reading during the second hour. It was hard to focus, however, and he couldn't retain very much of what he'd read.

By the time nearly three hours had passed John was really starting to worry. The Sherlock he knew before could sit and think for hours, yes, but never had he been so still. He usually moved his hands, his shoulders, or at least his eyes as he scanned the images his brain projected into his physical world.

John stood in front of Sherlock, and waved a hand to see if the motion would rouse him. When that didn't work, he wondered if the man was sleeping. It was a rare thing, even rarer for him to see it, but he did know what Sherlock looked like when he slept and it wasn't this. He almost laughed when he thought up images of a disheveled Sherlock twisted up in sheets, limbs thrown about in all kinds of positions. Sleep was when he was least composed, and that was probably part of his disdain for it.

He took a seat beside him, still not able to disturb him. "Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock's eyes popped open in one quick, fluid movement before darting right, left, up, down as if he was unsure of his surroundings. Once he figured out he was at home and felt the weight to his left, he finally looked at John, who wore a face full of concern.

"Sherlock," he said again, "are you okay?" He found himself asking that question a lot. Every time, Sherlock would nod. Even if he wasn't, and even if he knew John could see it, he nodded.

This time Sherlock shook his head.

And John didn't know what to say.

Any other time, he would put a hand on Sherlock's back and offer to make tea or to talk to him about things that didn't really matter but seemed to distract him.

"What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock pulled out the pad and pen he now kept in his pocket at all times. He hated those things more than anything. He just wanted to talk, he was tired of writing or texting just to have a conversation with his flatmate. There was a time when he wished he'd never have to speak again, and now he wondered if someone somewhere had misheard.

'I wasn't thinking.'

"Were you asleep then?"

Sherlock's head shook again as he wrote his response. 'Not sleeping. Dreaming.'

"What do you mean?"

'While I was away, I occasionally had difficulty focusing on the task at hand. I learned to focus my attention on one thing, one task, but block it from my immediate thoughts. Dissociative multitasking.'

"Isn't that dangerous?"

Sherlock tilted his head, asking for an explanation.

"Well, if you're doing something but not thinking about it, not paying attention, someone could get hurt."

'That was the point.'

"No, I don't mean whoever you were... targeting," John argued. "I mean you. You could've gotten hurt, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned away from him, eyes fixed in a downward stare, head turned slightly away. To John he looked like a child who'd been scolded for spilling his milk.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell... I'm sorry." But Sherlock wouldn't look at him. He noticed Sherlock's hands balling into tight fists, so he covered one of the fists with his free hand, trying to calm him. "Sherlock, please," he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Focusing on the thumb stroking over his shoulder, the warm palm covering the back of his left hand, Sherlock began to relax. He sank back into the sofa, letting his head roll back.

John moved his hand so both here holding Sherlock's. As he laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder, he thought back to a time when he would be afraid of someone walking in, seeing them so close. But those worries were long gone.

After a moment of confusion and hesitation, Sherlock allowed his head to rest on John's.

"I'm sorry," John said again.

'It's alright.' He wrote with his free hand.

"No, it isn't. I didn't want to upset you. I just... I always worried about you, you know? Anytime we had a case, if I couldn't be with you... I knew you could take care of yourself but I just worried so much."

'I worried about you as well. Even more so after I left. Every day, you were all I thought about.'

"Why?" John was sure there were a million other things Sherlock could have thought about. What made him so important?

Sherlock wrote out his response but contemplated scratching it out and rewriting it. John new most of what had happened in his time away, the things he'd done and endured. But he new very little of what went on in Sherlock's head, and he wasn't sure how much he was ready to share with him. 'I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I was going to die. I was sure of it.'

John went a bit cold, but reminded himself that Sherlock was here, alive. "But you didn't."

'Any statistician would have said it was impossible for me to survive. And yet I did.'

"And I'm glad."

Sherlock cracked a tiny smile. 'So am I.' Although he would have been glad either way, if it had meant protecting John. And the squeeze he felt around his hands told him John was aware of that.

"Can I ask you something?" He giggled a bit as Sherlock's nod tickled his ear. "What did Sally say to you as we were leaving today?"

'She apologised. Seems like everyone is apologising to me since I've gotten back. I don't understand.'

"They're sorry they misjudged you, treated you like a non-human."

'Why?'

"Because you're not a non-human. And it took your suicide and then your miraculous return from the dead to show them that."

'But you always knew.'

"Of course I did. Even when you doubted it yourself. I never stopped believing in you."

After a few minutes of comfortable silence Sherlock wrote one final thing on the pad. 'I'm going to try to get some sleep.'

John sat up, releasing Sherlock's hand from his. "Okay. I'm staying up for a bit. I'm here if you need me."

Sherlock flicked his hand through the air to say he understood. His last thoughts before pushing himself into a deep sleep were yes, John, I need you.

John didn't go to sleep that night, didn't even bother to try. He knew his thoughts about Sherlock would keep him awake. What went on in his head? What did he dream about?

He'd worried about him so much before, when they ran around chasing criminals and seeking danger. But he was starting to worry more than ever now. He was so different, his lack of voice couldn't be the only thing causing him such pain. Something else must have happened to him, and sometimes it seemed like Sherlock was about to tell him what it was.

But he always changed his mind, the inability to speak giving him more time to think about what he was about to say.

John didn't know what it was like to be practically trapped in your own head, but he knew it could be dangerous. And with a mind like Sherlock Holmes, he was bound to get lost once in a while.

Sherlock might find a dead end and not be able to backtrack out of it. He could find a room in his palace that he never knew existed before, and have the door close on him. A memory might jump out and distract him, pulling him so far off his path that he wouldn't realise he was lost until it was too late.

John just hoped he would be able to find him if it happened. He hoped he was enough (strong enough, clever enough, important enough) to help him.

By the time the sun rose, John had actually managed to get some sleep. He'd dozed off for about an hour on the sofa, the sleep dreamless and constantly interrupted by fits of blurry almost-awakeness.

He walked to Sherlock's room to check on him. Sometimes, even though Sherlock has been back for a few weeks, he's still afraid to open the door. Afraid to find it empty and cold, like it had been for so long.

But he pushed the door open just a crack, and there was Sherlock, face down and completely tangled up in his sheets. And he was most likely to stay that way for a few more hours, if not for the rest of the day, so John thought it was the perfect time to pay the other Holmes brother a visit.

"Ah, John, how lovely to see you again," Mycroft said from behind his desk. "How have you and my brother been getting along?"

"Something's wrong with him," John wastes no time with niceties. "He won't... he's different. I mean even more different, now. He seems... defeated."

Mycroft set down his expensive pen and looked up from his papers. "What would you have me do about it?"

"Tell me why."

"That is something you should talk to him about, not me."

"Well," John started, "he doesn't do much talking, lately, in case you haven't noticed."

Mycroft stood and wore a face of stone. "I can see you're frustrated, but there's no need to take it out on me. Sherlock is mute, and, while it is unfortunate, it is not my fault."

John tried to calm himself. He'd always been protective of his friend, since the very beginning. And now he just felt so helpless. He couldn't protectSherlock now, but he could try to help him in this aftermath. "I know. Just... there has to be more than that, Mycroft. I know he's upset about not being able to talk, but there's something else going on. Every day he gets worse, more reclusive."

"Not unusual for him, I'm afraid," Mycroft reminded him.

"But he can communicate. Talking would be faster and easier, yeah, but he's adapting. He writes, or texts, or uses sign language, or even uses a touch to communicate something. His lack of voice isn't the only problem, and I can't help him without knowing what else he's been thinking about. And I know he gave you permission to answer any question I had. So tell me. What else happened to him while he was out there."

"At the time that permission was granted, he was under the impression that he'd lost your friendship for good; I doubt it applies now."

"A technicality," John pointed out. "Please. I need to know."

Mycroft was silent for a few seconds before leaning against his desk. "A lot happened to him. He broke a lot of bones, took a few too many hits to his skull, and watched many people die by his own hand. He was captured and tortured, and part of this torture resulted in permanent loss of his vocal chords. He spent most of his time alone, planning, stalking, and killing. But, somehow, in the midst of all that, he did something no one would assume he had the ability to do."

"What happened?" John asked, finding it hard to believe there was something that a protective and vengeful Sherlock Holmes couldn't do.

"He fell in love, Dr. Watson."

John stood, the shock of Mycroft's words causing him to short circuit. His brain rewound the tape, then played it again, and still it said the same thing. He fell in love, Dr. Watson.

"Sherlock did?"

Mycroft gave a single nod. "Yes."

"He... told you this?"

Another stiff nod.

John wondered why Sherlock hadn't told him. He and his brother weren't exactly close, and John was his friend. And though everyone was entitled to their secrets, he had to wonder why Sherlock neglected to mention this when he'd been so honest about everything else. Emotions weren't as foreign to him as they once were and- this was probably why.

Funny. John felt a little sting in his chest. He'd thought Sherlock's newfound openness had had something to do with him.

And he remembered Sherlock's scribbles the night before. Every day, you were all I thought about. Not that it mattered, but it was clearly a lie if he'd gone and fell in love with someone.

He ignored the spark of anger when he felt worry building up inside him. Sherlock had been on a dangerous mission...

"Did something happen? To whoever he... did they get hurt, or..."

"No, nothing like that," Mycroft assured. "Sherlock... protected him with everything he had."

John didn't flinch at the pronoun. As far as he'd known, sherlock wasn't attracted to anyone, so surely the gender wouldn't have mattered when he did finally love someone. "Then why is he so... why is he here? Why isn't Sherlock with him?"

"He didn't return Sherlock's feelings," Mycroft said easily. "He remains under my watch and protection. They've kept in contact, although Sherlock has plans to put an end to that." Mycroft's stone face faltered for a moment so small John thought he might have imagined it.

"Why?"

"I raised my brother, John. And all through our lives, I urged him not to get attached to anyone. As hard as he fights me, that is one thing we never argued over. He took the advice and made it his one rule to live by. But he never bothered to figure out what happened if the rule was broken, if it was beyond his control. He made this plan partly out of the pain he feels, and partly because that's the rule. He can't deny he's attached, but he can put as much distance between them and pretend."

"And what about you?" John found himself asking, though he didn't know why. He didn't know much of anything at the moment, to be honest. "What do you think of it?"

Mycroft shook his head, as close to an unknowing shrug as the man could get. "I think he's just trying to make the pain stop. But I'm not sure it's ever going to, no matter the distance." Yes, Mycroft had warned him. But seeing his little brother suffering didn't, for once, make him want to say 'I told you so'. It just made him want to see the pain go away.

John took the steps up to 221B quietly, so he could hear any sign of Sherlock being awake. He didn't have to guess, though, when he opened the door and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring at his violin.

He did that sometimes. He hadn't played it once since he got back, but he held it.

"I keep waiting to wake up to hearing you playing," John said as he shut the door.

Sherlock put the instrument down, standing it against the chair, bow at its side. Then he typed something quickly on his phone and tossed it to John. 'You smell of Mycroft.'

John chuckled before walking over to Sherlock and returning his phone. "How long have you been awake?"

'Not long. Are you upset with me?'

"What?" John wondered aloud. "Why would you think that?"

'I can see it on your face. What have I done?'

"No, you haven't done anything, I just..." John tried to find the words. He wasn't angry. He was... hurt. And he felt guilty for going to Mycroft. As much as they acted like they hated each other, he knew that wasn't true. "Yesterday, you... scared me a little, with the whole... sitting there and not moving thing. So I went to Mycroft to find out if there was something going on. Something I could help with..."

Sherlock felt himself stiffen. There were plenty of things John didn't know, things he would reveal in his own time. 'What did he tell you?'

"He... said you'd, erm, fallen in love... with someone. While you were away." He stared at Sherlock, awaiting his reply. He hoped for Sherlock to deny it. For him to say Mycroft had lied. And he wasn't sure why.

'I did' was not the answer he was expecting, but it was the one he received.

John, in some corner of his mind, acknowledged that, among the multitude of things he was feeling right now, he felt a bit jealous. Sherlock was a man who purged himself of most emotion, especially those that would connect him to another human being. He was jealous that such a man would fall in love before he did.

Then he felt guilt bubble up in his chest because that was not how he wanted to feel toward his friend. He didn't want to feel like Sherlock didn't deserve to fall in love, because he did, he deserved anything he wanted. John was just... confused.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

'No.'

"It might help, Sherlock."

'It won't. And it's none of your business.'

John blinked at the words on the screen. Of course Sherlock was allowed to keep this to himself. Something so intimate and personal, especially for someone so alien to feeling. But that didn't stop the bit of anger tingling just beneath his skin. "Fine." He stood and went into the kitchen. All he wanted to do was help, but if Sherlock wouldn't let him then it was his problem.

Sherlock stood and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" John said, leaving the kitchen and the tea he'd started making. "You know you can't go out alone, what if something happens?"

'I'll hold on to the railing.'

"There's not railing everywhere, Sherlock, and no you won't anyway. Where are you going?"

'You're upset with me. Usually, when that happens, you leave. You won't now because you'll feel guilty for abandoning me but I don't need your pity. You want space, so I'm giving it to you.'

John sighed. "No, I'm sorry... I'm just confused. I guess I'm a little hurt that you wouldn't tell me that you... but I do understand if you'd rather keep it to yourself. You just seemed so out of it last night, and I felt helpless. I'm not upset. Well, I'm trying not to be, alright? If you still want to go out, you can, but I can't let you go out alone."

Sherlock looked like he was thinking about it. Who could escort him, other than John? As if he'd let anyone else anyway. He rolled his eyes and stuck out his elbow, creating a small gap for John to weave his arm through.

Which he did with a small smile. Just like that, they'd made up. John was still upset, but mostly at himself. He thought maybe he just didn't know what to do with this new information, this new knowledge about Sherlock and his apparently expanded emotional capacity.

"So," John asked as they walked without a destination, "any particular place you wanted to go?"

Sherlock shook his head as he typed with his free hand. 'I just needed to get outside for a little.'

John nodded, understanding the flat feeling a bit stuffy during and just after an argument, even a resolved one. "I was going to do some shopping this afternoon, we're running low on food. D'you want to come with me?" He said it mostly as a joke, the thought of Sherlock Holmes willingly accompanying him on a grocery run causing him to chuckle a bit.

'Won't I be in the way?'

"Of course not," John answered immediately. "But it's fine if you don't want to."

Sherlock gave no response, only kept following John's lead as he tugged him at the arm. John assumed that meant he wanted to accompany him, he just didn't want to say it.

It was one of the most Sherlock things he'd done lately, and it made John feel a little better.

They'd continued to walk in silence until they reached the store. John put a basket in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes but carried the basket as John pulled items from the shelves and placed them inside.

He was just starting to think the basket felt a little heavy when he felt someone bump into him from behind.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice said.

They turned around, John having felt the bump as well.

The voice belonged to a woman about an inch shorter than John, with light brown hair to her shoulders and a pair of black-framed glasses sitting on her nose.

"It's alright," John said, "no harm done."

The woman smiled at his forgiving voice. "I should have been paying more attention."

"It's fine, really," John promised.

She smiled again and looked to Sherlock, expecting him to give her the same assurances the other man had. But he said nothing, only looked around, as if he were waiting for this exchange to end. She saw their arms linked and bit her lip. "That's cute," she told them, "couples doing their shopping together."

At her words, Sherlock pulled his arm free and put a few inches between him and John. He got a quick glance from John but it was over in a flash and then he was talking to the women again.

"Ah, it's not like that," he said. "He's... recovering from an injury, so I-"

"Oh, I see," she interrupted, the rest of the explanation unnecessary.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" John asked Sherlock. He was running just a few minutes late for his third date with Mary, the woman he'd met while shopping. He'd left Sherlock alone in the flat plenty of times before, but he'd been doing it more frequently now.

Sherlock held up the paper that said 'I will be fine', as he'd answered that question a few times throughout the week and was tired of writing the same thing over and over again.

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs."

'I am not a child, I don't need someone keeping an eye on me at all times.'

"I know, I know. I'll be back later, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and shooed John out the door. He knew John was worried about him being alone, and even more worried that he would leave the flat alone, but he was tired of being treated like this.

Once John was out the door and far away from Baker Street, Sherlock donned his coat and left the flat.


End file.
